An Omnibus Of Hors D'Oeuvres

I am an aesthete
Scrutinizing what I eat
A consumer of delicate fruit and choice meat
Gazing at my mundane food
I begin to brood
I am tempted to be crude
A lout, veritably uncouth
How can I put this in my mouth?

I groan, I moan
Woe unto me
This food is the acme of mundanity
But there is nothing but this
Only thistles and grist
And my hunger and my thirst
Will only get worse
And so
Muttering, this ain't food, it's fake
I eat and I ache
I know I am wrong
So I wrote this song
I've been an aesthete for too long